had returned in the same way. But darkness had fallen, and they
had not yet come. She stood in the doorway, went down the road and
home again; but no wagon appeared. At last she hears a rattling on
the road, her heart beats as violently as the wheels revolve; she
clings to the doorpost, looking out; the wagon is coming; only one
sits there; she recognizes Lars, who sees and recognizes her, but
is driving past without stopping. Now she is thoroughly alarmed!
Her limbs fail her; she staggers in, sinking on the bench by the
window. The children, alarmed, gather around, the youngest asking
for papa, for the mother never spoke with them but of him. She
loved him because he had such a good heart, and now this good
heart was not with them; but, on the contrary, away on all kinds
of business, which brought him only unhappiness; consequently,
they were unhappy too.

"Oh, that no harm had come to him to-day! Canute was so excitable!
Why did Lars come home alone? why didn't he stop?"

Should she run after him, or, in the opposite direction, toward
her husband? She felt faint, and the children pressed around her,
asking what was the matter; but this could not be told to them, so
she said they must take supper alone, and, rising, arranged it and
helped them. She was constantly glancing out upon the road. He did
not come. She undressed and put them to bed, and the youngest
repeated the evening prayer, while she bowed over him, praying so
fervently in the words which the tiny mouth first uttered, that
she did not perceive the steps outside.

Canute stood in the doorway, gazing upon his little congregation
at prayer. She rose; all the children shouted "Papa!" but he